Who Are You?
by mentalillusions
Summary: When Thomas first sees Jimmy on the day of his interview, he's certain that they've met before. Desperate to know where he recognises the younger man from, Thomas casts his mind back to the past in hope of finding the identity of the new footman somewhere within his memories. Eventual Thommy. Loosely following some of the main Thomas/Jimmy events in S3.
1. First impressions

He didn't realise it at the time, but he knew Jimmy. From a life so long ago it felt almost like a completely separate existence. When the young man walked in on his first day for his interview, of course he saw that he was gorgeous, but there was something else to him, he seemed familiar, yet new and unexplored at the same time. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and as the valet looked into the bright blue hues something stirred from deep within him_(not like that),_ like their souls had once met, and were destined to meet again. He wasn't sure that he actually recognised him, but the other man had a look about his entire demeanour which made it feel like he had known him his whole life. The young blond just seemed to be innately recognisable. He felt a connection. He just couldn't put his finger on why.

In all honesty, he didn't really realise he was having an epiphany of recognition, he was too blown over by the other's astounding beauty. Nevertheless, he noticed that he did feel something other than obvious attraction to the good looking man, but there was something more, something indescribable; like he had been waiting his entire life just for them to meet again. And yet he didn't even know his name.

"Who's this?" he heard himself ask, his tone holding an embarrassing undertone of excitement. What a foolish thing to say to such a ravishing young man. But he couldn't help it; the words were out of his mouth before he could think things through.

"Jimmy Kent," the blond answered brightly. He hoped the look on his face wasn't revealing the extreme emotions that were sparking up within him. Now was not the time to break out the come hither look, but he couldn't help himself…He did so anyway. The other man started to look uncomfortable under the intense gaze and paused awkwardly before adding "at your service".

Never had Thomas been more turned on by those words in his life. However at the same time something else lingered in his mind, in his body, his heart; he felt the warm rush of a feeling quite alien to him. It had been so long since he had felt something like it. It was sort of sentimental and pure. He couldn't find many more words to describe it. It was most unusual. Unnatural even, for him at least.

"Mr Barrow, valet to his lordship," he said coolly, yet below the surface he was ablaze with excitement, passion, energy. It had been too long since a potential man had come along; and he surprised himself, for once, being asserted in the knowledge that, when Thomas looked into Jimmy's eyes, that he wanted something more, something deeper than just a quick dalliance filled with plenty of copulation. No, this time he wanted something real, his heart was screaming for attention, demanding what it wanted as it beat thunderously within his ribcage, so hard that he thought he may just end up with bruises upon his chest. For the first time in a long while, perhaps maybe even ever, he could look at another person knowing he desperately wanted their love, their companionship, no one else's. But more than anything, and this is the part which seemed to surprise him the most, he wanted to know who this man was, why he seemed so familiar.

_Who are you?_

* * *

That night, Thomas' mind strayed to areas best left untouched. It was that man, he didn't know why but he reminded him of the life he once had before all this-he looked around at his small shabby room in contempt-not that he ever had anything better at home. _Home. _The thought of living in a house with his family and calling it his home was…well, it was odd to say the least. He never gave much attention to letting his thoughts linger on his family-they weren't worth it-to be honest he felt let down by them even though it had been many moons since he'd left.

_'Man shall not lie with man' his mother wailed from inside the house, as he stood outside, watching bitterly as she threw his belongings out the window. She had found out earlier that day, yanking him home and shouting at him in the garden until his father heard and stormed out of his workshop wanting to know what all the ruckus was about; as soon as he learnt of his sons 'wicked ways' he dragged him in through the house by the scruff of the neck and beat him senselessly against the floor when mother said she had caught him stealing a kiss with a boy behind the church._

They had kicked him out that day at the age of 16 and told him to '_find his own way in life'._ Really, it was an amazement they hadn't caught him before, he shuddered at the memory. It wasn't healthy for him to think about the past, especially that past.

_Well, at least I did make my own way, even if it did take blood, sweat and tears._

Thomas blew out the last light in his room and vowed not to think on it again.

* * *

He broke his own promise. That boy had showed up whilst he was out in London. Whilst walking through the attic corridors to get to his bedroom, he passed one of the unused rooms, the door slightly agar. It was basically inviting Thomas to look inside; it wasn't creepy to peer in if the door was already open. A warm smile graced his face before he could even stop it. It was that boy again, Jimmy… undressing. He let his gaze linger over the other man's body, turned away from him to give a full view of his back. It was a rather nice back, so toned and tanned and… _since when did I become so fascinated by backs?_

"You got the job then?" the valet asked without even having to think. It was a stupid question and come to think of it he really didn't want to make his presence known; it would have been nice to just stand and watch a few minutes longer, but then again, the last thing he wanted was to be caught staring with no obvious intention to speak.

The blond turned around, flashing a broad smile, clutching his shirt front in his hands aimlessly, the task of dressing seeming to be temporally forgotten.

"I'm on my way, Mr Barrow"

_On your way to my bed…_

_Wait…what?_

_(Who said that?)_

The young blond continued to smile pleasantly before his expression mellowed into one of neutral curiosity. He paused for a second then looked like he was about to say something, as if he was saying the words in his head to make sure that they sounded acceptable.

"They say you were a footman once?"

"That's right" the valet replied with a smile.

"So can I come to you if there's anything I need to know?"

"Certainly, why not?" With one last look, Thomas drank in the sight before him, trying his hardest to memorise every little detail of the man in front of him, until (begrudgingly) walking away when it was clear the conversation was over and it was no longer appropriate to stand and stare. Despite hating having to leave, the valet walked away with a content half-smile playing on his lip, and for the first time in a long while it's not because of someone else's downfall or misery.

Later that day he went in to see Jimmy sitting at the servant's hall table, everyone already hanging off his every word. Thomas couldn't help but briefly stop and stare. He was so enticing. So magnetic. And as he looked at him again he was certain that they had met, or that he had at least seen him without exchanging words at some point in his life. _Who are you?_

The problem with this was that to unravel the truth, the past had to be re-entered, and he couldn't possibly do that.

* * *

Thomas did it anyway. As he stared up into the blackness of his ceiling that night, he began to subconsciously sift through his memories, starting from where he had last left off several weeks previously.

_He had to leave his village immediately, he couldn't linger in his hometown; the news would have already started to spread. He needed to get out. He stumbled along to uneven surface of the many country roads for what felt like eons of time. He eventually came to rest for the day in a village about 10 miles away from his own. His feet were aching horribly and he was desperate to just stop and have a rest. He appeared to be in a small village, although it was hard to tell as there wasn't much there apart from a small pub and he had never been there before. As he neared the building the sound of an enchanting melody filled the air, as if hypnotised, Thomas felt himself rove towards the door._

_It was warm and the smell of home-cooked food wafted through the air pleasantly. There was a small fire burning in the corner and a man with greying flaxen hair stood at the bar. Thomas swiftly ordered a drink and was told he could 'sit wherever he liked'. He knew he should have been saving his money, but the room was so cosy, and he was desperately tired. He noticed that the source of the sound was coming from a door to the side. He didn't even have to think about moving; before he knew it he was already inside. In front of him sat the cause of the elegant sound. A piano faced towards the wall, just by the door. The boy playing didn't stop at the sound of approaching footsteps, his back still turned away as he played. Thomas felt his cheeks flush as he went to stand by the end of the instrument and watch the performance, or more importantly the performer, more closely._

_The other boy was probably only a few years younger than him, well at least no more than 5. Thomas felt somewhat guilty for finding a boy younger than himself rather cute. He was stunningly beautiful, even in the awkward stages of youth his skin was bright and clear. Smooth blond hair flopped slightly in front of his eyes as he looked at his own fingers dancing over the keys. Thomas immediately drew the connection that the man in the other room must have been his father. When he finished, he cranked his head up and to the side, looking at Thomas with a sweet smile and wide eyes._

_"You like it? I've been practicing for months!" he said cheerily as he swung his legs around and hopped off the chair. Thomas nodded in reply, unsure of what to say, slightly taken aback by the younger boy's cheerful and earnest attitude. If he had leant anything in his time on this earth, it was that generally people weren't kind to you unless they wanted something, and if they didn't want anything then they were bound to backstab you eventually. But he could never picture the youth before him doing anything of the sort-he seemed to break the rule-Thomas felt himself give a genuine smile even though he knew he should have being having qualms. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it abruptly at the painful feeling of his body aching, quite a lot actually, and the more he thought about it, the weaker he felt, like his legs might just give out…_

_He awoke some hours later to warm breaths on his nose. His eye lids fluttered open, rousing him from his unconsciousness. He wondered how exactly he got in this bed; the room he was in was modestly furnished, yet had a cosy, homely feel to it. The piano boy perched at his side on the bed quickly drew away from him as if he had been burnt. He looked embarrassed for a moment until flashing him a relaxed smile._

_"Yer fainted downstairs in the pub" he said in explanation to the question Thomas hadn't yet asked. He had only seen him for no more than five minutes and he could already feel himself growing a strange attachment to the younger boy. Although not much younger, Thomas reminded himself again, smiling weakly in return. He shuddered as he felt him wiping a damp cloth across his brow. The coldness of the water made him realise just how hot he was feeling. As stray droplet of water trickled down face and onto his check, Piano Boy gently brought a finger up to brush it away, both of them colouring slightly at the contact, the others hand moving away quickly as his cheeks continued to burn; he dropped it to lie on the bedside table as he placed his palm easily on Thomas' shoulder, bending forwards slightly so that he towered over top of him, lying beneath the blonds two arms. Piano Boy ran the palm of his hand across his face to see his temperature, letting it linger over his forehead as he spoke softly in a similar Yorkshire burr to that of his own._

_"How ya feelin'?" he asked, brushing his fingers along his temple and down to his cheekbone. Thomas felt his face burn again at the attention he was getting; no one ever gave him much notice so he was slightly baffled as to why Piano Boy was taking such care with him. His stomach twisted with nerves, although it wasn't the same feeling as unpleasant worry. It was something new. Thomas' mind briefly wondered if this is what it felt like to fall in love, but he quickly pushed the idea away. Silly nonsense._

_Seconds later, the blond's father walked in and frowned at the sight before him. Not many men would be pleased to see their son caressing the face of a total stranger, and this man was no exception. Thomas couldn't help but wonder about the boy; he honestly seemed to see no wrong in what he was doing, he was innocent, naïve, yet bizarrely curious and fearless as he continued to run his hand over Thomas' face regardless of his father's presence. As much as he was enjoying the contact, Thomas grudgingly shrugged away from the touch so not to give the boy's father any ideas. Nothing was really happening after all and he'd be damned if he was to be harshly kicked out and pushed away twice for indulging in his preferences._

_"You feelin' better lad?" the older man asked, his brow creasing. Judging by the uneasy look he was giving the two of them, Thomas took that as his sign to leave, even though he was still tired and hungry, and desperately wanted to know more about the boy he had just encountered._

_Less than twenty minutes later he found himself back on the street, thanking the man as he left. He never did find out their names, never being one to want to be overly familiar, nor grow close to people who will only leave and let you down, a fact life had already made quite clear for him._

Perhaps that was the boy? _Unlikely. _Thomas thought._ There's more than one blond haired boy in Yorkshire._ Although it was hard to tell, the memory already seemed so distant. He hadn't really thought about that incident since it happened; he had more important things to think about at the time other than silly boys playing the piano. Okay, strictly speaking that wasn't entirely true, he may have thought about him a little bit, but like everything else about his past he had willingly pushed it away into the deepest, darkest, corner of his mind to fade away.

_Some days later, Thomas had found himself at Downton Abbey seeking employment. He was met by an old man with furry eyebrows which looked like a caterpillar had just died across his forehead, who introduced himself as the butler, Mr Carson. Thomas had made sure to spend the little money he had on a room in the village for the night before just so he could look presentable. The rest of the days he had just been sleeping rough. This really was his only chance. He should have thought himself lucky-Carson took him on as a hallboy-despite him having no reference, and only his word that he was a clockmakers son and he had been working for his father-turns out, one of the other boys had suddenly quit so they were actually in need of a replacement. Thomas wasn't too impressed by this position and was determined to move up. Although even he could accept that 16 was too young, but in two years Thomas was working as a footman after proving to Carson that he could in fact stand up straight and hold a tray. Thomas was glad that he was actually able to, he had made a big deal to Carson that he could hold a tea tray perfectly without actually trying prior. His clockmakers hands had to be good for something…_

Thomas turned over to lie on his side. _No point in dwelling on something so silly._


	2. Building bonds

**A/N: Okay so I think this is all in the right tense, but at first I wrote it all in present tense and then it had to be changed, because only the flashbacks are meant to be in present. And I may have gone off on a slight tangent about the war possibly based off of all the talk of why none of the characters seemed affected. Well anyway, sorry for any mistakes.**

* * *

_Trenches, January 1915_

_Thomas stuffs his hands into the trouser pockets of his uniform in search of his pocket watch. Grasping it tightly, he takes it out and holds it, bringing it to rest above his heart with unsteady hands. He's so afraid but somehow the little watch brings him comfort, makes him feel like he isn't so alone; and reminds him of a life he took for granted, the world he so desperately wishes to return to. His haversack bashes against his thigh as he walks further into the trench, all the items he needs to live and do his work stored safely inside. He often worries about losing it, going to help a man and realising it's gone, but of course that never happens, he's always prepared._

Ivy stood in the servant's hall holding a plate of toast, talking about babies. Normally Thomas would have been annoyed and wanted her to shut up, but he was feeling rather good natured at that moment. Lady Sybil's baby was due any day and it had seemed to raise the spirits of everyone in the house, by giving them all some excitement to all their boring, empty lives.

"It's always an idea to be prepared," Jimmy perked up from opposite the table, looking at Ivy with a pleasant smile, before going back to his meal.

Thomas felt his heart rate pick up at the thought of illicit double meanings. He was certain young Jimmy felt the same way he did about him. When he said those things, gave Thomas that look, he was certain it was for him, like he was trying to convey a secret message in his words, trying to say _'I want you as well' _without actually saying it.

"I expect you're always prepared," Thomas said, his voice coming out as more of husky whisper, laced with lust. He didn't mean to sound that sensual and hoped that no one else noticed.

"I try to be, Mr Barrow," Jimmy answered brightly, looking up at him and holding eye contact with those familiar eyes Thomas couldn't quite place.

Carson frowned with revulsion, his brow furrowing. Thomas could have laughed that he of all people could see the sexual side, but didn't; he was too engulfed by looking at the younger man, who broke the eye contact as the butler spoke: "I don't like the direction this conversation is taking…could we all begin the day's tasks please?"

_The sounds of shells landing and exploding makes the ground seem to vibrate, the wails of pain and the stench of death appear to be constant, everyday he is expected to run into No Man's Land without a gun and scoop bodies off the floor, whether the man is dead or alive, the situation very rarely leading to the solider in speaking being the latter state of existence; and this is most certainly not what Thomas was expecting when he signed up for the Army Medical Corps. Not even close._

_Very rarely in life will Thomas allow himself to acknowledge a weak mental state in his mind, but if he was honest-if only to himself-he is scared…and hurting…far more than he'd ever care to admit to anyone other than himself. Hell, he doesn't even like to admit it to himself. This is not the cushy job in a white room, with sterile objects, and nurses carrying fresh pressed linen to rows of orderly beds, closely reminiscent to the society he's used to living in. This is hell. Torture even. And he doesn't think he can bare another five minutes, but he knows he has to, it is his duty whether he gives a fuck about king and country or not, it isn't like he can back out, he just has to suck it up._

Thomas found himself with a few minutes to spare in the afternoon, and made his way through the corridor, towards the courtyard. On his journey he passed the kitchen.

"You stupid girl!" echoed through the air, followed by the clang of pots and pans falling it the floor with an almighty _smash!_ It was strange, so many years had gone past, but sounds like that still reminded him of the fronts. He knew it was silly, but he couldn't help it; a shiver went down his spine at the memories which came flooding back. Luckily, very rarely did anyone ever drop anything at Downton, and when they did it didn't bother him much, and didn't bring back those thoughts; but there was something about the sound metal made when it fell, especially multiple pieces in unison, the noise it created that would rings through the air, a sound so sharp and continuous it made your skin prickle and your heart beat rise.

Oh god it was happening again.

It had been about a year since it had last happened, and it was so unusual and irregular it normally got ignored, or he could pass it off as something more innocent. He wasn't as bad as Mr Lang, and he didn't even consider himself to have shellshock, but the war had it's affects on everyone, but no one ever dared to acknowledge this fact. Society didn't appreciate being told about the affects of war on men. But whether talked about or not, it was true; nobody had been left unscathed. Even Thomas.

Thomas felt his heart throw itself against his chest repeatedly and his breath quicken. It felt like someone had sucked all the air out his lungs. He felt himself tremble and screwed his eyes shut to wish away the feeling, trying to keep as still as possible in hopes that no one would notice. This had only happened a few other times before, but he wasn't an idiot, he knew what had caused it. He could almost hear the sounds of shellfire in his ears before it transformed into the constant drone of a monotone ringing. He felt so dizzy, so sick, so-

He felt a hand on his arm and a gentle voice.

"Thomas?" it was Anna. Opening his eyes slightly, he shrugged away his arm, and gave her a curt, albeit shaky, nod.

"M'fine" he said, frowning in displeasure at how weak his voice sounded to his own ears, before all but running down the corridor and into the courtyard.

_Thomas takes shaky steps forward, gun fire ringing in his ears. It's so dark he can't see a bloody thing; he can barely even see his own feet. For all he knows he's unwillingly trampling his patients. He slides the watch back into his pocket and continues to make his way forward. He needs a smoke. And quickly._

A cool morning breeze hit his face and he felt himself begin to calm. He took out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep breath. _Ah, much better. _He thought as he exhaled, his body and mind beginning to mellow slightly.

Some minutes later Jimmy came outside in search of him, asking if he minded giving him some assistance with winding the clocks. It almost seemed like a silly question to him; of course he didn't mind, he'd take any excuse he could get to be near the younger man, still so desperate to know who he was. He had been thinking and thinking those past few weeks but to no avail, his mind was blank. Apart from today. Today it was so full of memories he could barely even breathe. He never thought about the war, it wasn't healthy for a person to spent to long dwelling on a subject like that, it could drive a man mad-which he had just gotten some first hand proof of-so he didn't know why it was so fixated in his mind today. Him and his brain had a sort of agreement to never venture down emotionally destructive paths of thought, and he felt a little angry that it had decided to disobey. But it was probably his own fault, ever since seeing Jimmy all he had done was think, and for once not the kind of thoughts which involved a plot.

#

With his hand placed over Jimmy's, Thomas began to slowly turn the hand of the clock. He took advantage of the situation to be closer than normal, with his injured palm resting comfortably on the footman's shoulder; their bodies so close that if Jimmy were to move ever so slightly backwards they would be flush against each other. The valet looked over the younger man's shoulder and he spoke in gentle tones.

"There…Do you feel the slight increase in the resistance?" he asked, hand still moving slowly over top of Jimmy's.

"I think so," the footman replied after a pause. Thomas smiled slightly to himself at how comfortable the other man seemed within such close proximity to him; definitely a good sign. Yet still he couldn't help feeling this wasn't the first time; maybe it wasn't, he really had no idea.

"That's what you're watching for. Never go past the point where the clock is comfortable," Thomas cocked his head to the side slightly so that he had a view of the man's side profile.

"You make it sound like a living thing," he said with a smile.

"Clocks are living things. My dad was a clockmaker. I grew up with clocks. I understand them. Never wind them in the early morning before the room is warmed up, nor too late when the night air cools them down. Find a time when the family is out the room," normally Thomas hated to bestow his wisdom to anyone, and if it were someone else, he'd only tell them the bare minimum. But this was Jimmy-sweet, charming, lovely Jimmy-and he was happy to teach, and tell him anything. He almost felt a strange sense of responsibility over the younger man.

Thomas heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming down the corridor and moved his hands away hastily-not that he had been doing anything wrong, he just didn't want anyone to get the wrong impression; or to be more precise, didn't want anyone to catch on to what impression he was trying to give Jimmy. Pulling his hand and body away quickly, and returning his façade to normal as he closed the clock window. Giving the younger man a warm smile and a nod he made his way down the corridor, trying to ignore the sudden look of discomfort Jimmy had on his face when he knew someone was there.

_A bit of nerves is natural; no good ever comes of getting too cocky or brave in romantic exchanges._

_#_

_Parts of the trench wall crumble and land on his helmet as an especially forceful bomb goes off, dirt falling across his face and into his eyes making them sting and burn. He attempts to blink it away but to no avail, it's hopeless, he's now double-blind, and there is no way that he's going to use his hands to brush it way, not when he knows of all the places they have been. No matter how much he washes them he will never forget what they had done here, and where exactly on another person's body they had been and it pains him to admit that it has been nowhere near anyone's nether region-well at least not sexually. Thomas shudders at the thoughts that race into his mind-huge gashes, amputations, surgery done by under-qualified men in dismal conditions. Thomas smiles bitterly at the thought that at least he isn't the one on the makeshift hospital bed with some man's hands deep into his open stomach, trying to pick out a bullet._

_He may have been trained, but it was only a whistle stop tour of trench medics, nothing could have prepared him for what he's seen in the few months he's been there. He has no idea how he'll ever forget and carry on when he gets back home to Downton, but he'll find a way, that he is sure of; he always does. God, home. The Abbey already seems so distant, like he had left years ago when in reality it has only been a few months. He can't believe that he had hated it so much and had been so desperate to leave; everything which seemed so important then, like getting rid of Long John Silver now seems so…trivial. Odd. Now his entire existence before this war also seems trivial, pointless. Everything he ever cared about…obliterated; it all seems so worthless now; all his dreams seem ridiculous ankle deep in mud…a valet! What a stupid life ambition, it's made quite clear here that the illusion of the society which he lived in was all just pretend, held together by outdated ideas and the Victorian sense of propriety; he can finally see that the life of a servant, and a noble too, is all part of an era past; yet somehow he has spent his entire life living in this pointless fakery. Christ he's starting to sound like Branson, he's pretty sure that he isn't going to become a revolutionary, but hey, stranger things have happened. For other men, the war makes them treasure their former lives even more dearly, for Thomas, it makes him hate it even more, makes him want to push away the person of who he was and become something new. It only took five minutes in the trenches to decide when he gets back home-not that he is sure he will; after all it was one of the qualities he treasures the most about himself: lack of naivety-he is most certainly not going to go back to being a servant. But perhaps the dream of something more is naive? Maybe-_

_"Ouch!" says a voice in a pitchy screech, as his body collides with another, and he stands on someone's foot. He can dimly see the flicker of a candle revealing a dugout in the trench wall._

_"Sorry" he mutters, taking a step towards the dugout and sitting down on one of the bags against the wall. The other man takes the seat opposite, placing the candle he was holding on the floor in between the two of them. Thomas always feels strangely claustrophobic sitting at these things, especially with another person there expecting him to talk. To make matters worse, most of the men he finds himself forced into conversation with at these things don't seem to understand that after clearing away bodies for hours on end he might just like-well he would like some quiet, not that that was possible-but at least a bit of down time. He deserves that and no one was going to take that from him. He makes this quite clear to every man he's ever sat down with and this man is going to be no exception. Come to think of it, even by poor lighting, this doesn't look like a man at all, barely even a boy._

_#_

Some nights later, the moment they had all been waiting for, came. For hours they had been on tender hooks waiting for the news on Lady Sybil's baby. Carson let everyone stay up until it was born; it was hopeless expecting anyone to be able to sleep when they were all buzzing with excitement. Not all the upstairs members were universally liked at Downton, but Lady Sybil was one of the few who had won all their hearts.

Thomas thought himself rather fortunate that so many opportunities were arising for him and Jimmy to spend time together and he was determined to make the most of every one of them.

"Show us a card trick, Jimmy," he asked with a grin, before taking another breath of his cigarette. He wanted to make it clear that Jimmy was talking to him, just in case Ivy tried to come and steal him away. Plus, of course, he wanted to spend time with the younger footman; in Thomas's eyes he was killing two birds with one stone.

Before Jimmy got the chance to respond, Carson came down and announced:

"That's it…the baby is born. It's a girl, now you can all go to bed".

Thomas smiled at the announcement; another little Lady Sybil. He'd be a liar if he said he wanted a little Tom Branson running around the house.

"Good news," he said, more to himself than anyone else, stubbing his cigarette out on the ash tray, and throwing his newspaper down.

"Do yer like Lady Sybil?" Jimmy asked, also placing his cards on the table.

"I do." Thomas replied honestly. "We worked together in the hospital during the war. So I know her better than all of them really. She's a lovely person," Thomas reached out a hand to grab Jimmy's arm, giving it a friendly shake, "Like you" he said brightly, ignoring the look of mild disgust on the footman's face as he looked down at Thomas' grasping hand. Thomas let him go, beaming at him, before making his way out the room, and into bed.

Honestly, he had never smiled so much in his life, and it was all because of that _strangely familiar_ footman. With another grin, Thomas blew out his candle on the bedside table, and snuggled under the covers, awaiting the journey his memories and dreams would take him on; and for once, not dreading it.

_#_

_Thomas pulls his haversack off his shoulder and places it on the floor with a _**_thud. _**_With shaking hands he takes out his handkerchief and wearily wipes his face to the best of his ability, clearing the dirt from his eyes. He can hear the sounds of men shuffling and talking outside, but can see nothing but darkness looking back out into the trench. He doesn't think he will ever be able to get used to the state of blindness the night brings._

_The boy opposite him shifts as he tries to get comfortable on the ground and Thomas realises with a disapproving frown that unfortunately he also has plans of sleeping the night there as well. As he withers, moving his limbs and slouching against the wall, the foot of his boot hits the candle and he flexes his leg, toppling it over and extinguishing the flame leaving them in utter darkness._

_Thomas huffs in anger. These things are bad enough to sleep in by yourself, he really doesn't want to spend the night cramped up with a total stranger. Despite already being in the trenches for several months, Thomas still hasn't quite lost his sense of propriety and dignity when it comes to sleeping, cleaning, and dressing arrangements. Thomas sighs dejectedly. He really isn't soldier material, and in the darkness he grudgingly admits to himself that he is just too…comported perhaps after years of service and maybe even a tad too fastidious; and God he is so aware that he really doesn't belong here. He misses the clean and orderly state of his room, the fresh linen, smoking in the courtyard, even Carson's silly rules. He's the kind of boy who really isn't built for hard labour and cruel conditions, and the news of being called up to go to the trenches came as quite the shock. Thomas isn't foolish, he knew it would be awful, that's why he joined the Medics Corp. but-Thomas sighs heavily-it's even more awful than he could have ever imagined._

_The Corporal is snapped out of his reverie as some dirt crumbles from the ceiling and bounces of the metal of his hat, bringing him back to present._

_"Oi! Now look what you've gone and done, waving yer legs around like a silly fool-I need to sleep in this space as well, you clot!"_

_He hears the boy make a whimpering noise before giving a muffled:_

_"I'm sorry sir!"_

_This. This is why Thomas normally got to sleep alone; after the first few weeks everyone had worked out how annoying and fussy and rude he was to 'bunk with' and had taken to avoiding sleeping near him._

_Sometimes, in the dead of the night, Thomas regrets his actions, and for a split second he wishes that he had someone here to talk to him, comfort him; he pushes these thoughts away. He's determined not to grow close to anyone; he can't, it would hurt far too much to lose them when their enviable death comes around. It might even lead him to do something stupid. Nevertheless, he still prays that he has someone there for support, other than O'Brien whose only words of wisdom are 'don't die lad' and 'stop complaining' in her letters. In a way he needs her to keep a stable mind, to not have a melt down and panic, to control himself._

_A comfortable silence falls and Thomas is just about to fall asleep as he rests his eyes, droning out the sound of shell fire, when:_

_"Do you ever get scared-I mean when yer down here?" the squeaky voice breaks his state of rest and he opens his eyes irritably, not that it made much of a difference._

_"What do you think?" Thomas bites back sarcastically._

_The boy's voice wavers as he speaks._

_"It's jus'…all the other men, they all seem so…fine…and I…I jus' can't bare it!" he lets out a whimper and begins to cry._

_**Oh for Christ's sake!**_

_Thomas _**_hmms,_**_ non-committed, desperately wanting the conversation to be over sooner rather than later._

_"Well maybe that's because they are!" Thomas growls, although he knows it's a lie. Nobody is fine. "Now shut up and go to sleep!" the Corporal goes on with a tone of finality, crossing his arms to his chest._

_"I'm too young to be here! Well…not legally…but in me mind I'm jus' not ready-"_

_"You never will be!" Thomas intersects, frustrated. His voice softens: "No one is"._

_"I'm only 19! I should be at home with me mum and dad. I thought," he gives a bitter laugh, "I thought it would be a bit a fun, over before Christmas-an adventure even…it seems I was mistaken."_

_Thomas lets the words wash over him. He understands. Not often in his life can he say that, or even think it, but he does. He contemplates voicing this, and even though it goes against his rule on being overly friendly with people, he does so anyway._

_Before he can say anything, the younger man crawls over to his side, snuggling up next to him. He can hear his deject, laboured breaths, and shudders as he reaches out a hand and grasps at Thomas' thigh, rubbing it slightly in the process. He feels the boy lean his head to the side to rest on his shoulder._

_"I jus' want to go home" he whispers in an unsteady tone. He's showing the emotions Thomas is too afraid to show, too afraid to admit he holds._

_"I understand" he whispers into his hair and he snuggles into the position, placing his hand over top of the other man's. And with that they go to sleep without another word, yet both feeling considerably safer than when they were awake._

#

He never saw that boy again in the trenches, or if he did, he didn't recognise him, he didn't exactly get a good look at the other man. He wasn't too sure why he was bothering to think about this, when he knew most of the war was bad memories, he just wanted to know why he seemed so familiar, and if it meant by doing so he found out who Jimmy was, then in his eyes it was worth the reminders of his negative past.


	3. No sex for Thomas

_2__nd__ November 1916_

_Despite days having passed, Thomas' shot hand continues to throb awfully, the harsh weather and conditions of the trenches doing nothing to help. But he knows that, at the end of the day, it's worth the sacrifice. Although, in his current state of immense pain-and the paranoia that he thought he heard some of his fellow medics say they might have to amputate it if any infection gets in there-it is becoming increasingly hard to keep believing that the addition to his body of the new blighty was worthwhile, even if deep down he knows it is. Thomas has never claimed to be a brave man, perhaps he is foolhardy, but that isn't exactly the same as brave-close, in many ways, but not the same-he can't stand the fact that everyone is thinking he's a coward. He's sure that's what they all think, so many are thinking it their thoughts are almost audible, deafening even; they think him a coward, and maybe he is. Sitting in the medical area for all that time, he certainly feels like a coward, watching all the men stumble past with honest wounds. Yet the honest wounds will surely kill at least half of them, if not more. If Thomas had waited to get an honest wound-which was inevitably going to happen-he'd be leaving France in a casket; and that's only if they found enough of him. At least this way he still owns a beating heart, even if after all of this is over, it has a slightly wounded beat. At least it will still be there and not sitting inside a lifeless corpse._

* * *

The death of Lady Sybil had left Thomas feeling raw, like the last hope that there was still some good in the people of current society had died, leaving him with a dull throb in his heart; mourning the death of one of the few which, Thomas believed, had a chance of understanding the errors of the world, and the cruelty to his kind. She had certainly proved herself capable of such modern beliefs what with her active agreement to women's rights, and her fighting against the class barriers and going along with the Irish independence, although he had a feeling Branson had some part in those beliefs. Not many times in his life of servitude had he felt too defeated to even keep up his indifferent façade, but this was certainly one of them. Was life determined for him to be completely bitter and twisted; was it just going to keep killing everything he loved that made him have hope until he just stopped believing that there was some good to come his way? It had certainly done that so far it seemed. First dear Edward Courtenay, now Lady Sybil. Maybe he didn't deserve to know good souls, maybe his love for them is what killed them, like fate didn't want him taking an interest in anyone pure, so killed them so he'd stay away, so he'd go off and mope in the shadows with everyone and everything which was bad, till that last little trace which was capable of good was burnt away, leaving him as nothing more than a hollow, heartless carcass.

A voice broke though into his depressive monologue and Thomas realised that he had been staring into his porridge for quite a while now, not that he cared, he was allowed to be unhappy, if that's what he felt, but sadly the owner of said voice felt otherwise. "Cheer up Mr Barrow, a long face won't solve anything" Alfred said from opposite the table. He wasn't even going to bother to look up, especially not for _Alfred._

But he would look up for Anna who reprimanded him from her seat a few places down from him. "Leave him alone, he knew Lady Sybil better than any of us." He wouldn't normally have, but it warmed his heart just a little to hear someone sticking up for him. He gazed up wearily to see her looking at him with sympathetic eyes, which also he would normally hate, but right now he appreciated it. To him, he had never really lost anyone he cared for; sure people had died along the way but he didn't feel a connection to them. In a way he had lost his entire family in one day, but that was different, because he knew that they no longer wanted him, and they had made it clear when they kicked him out, and he could continue on with his life knowing that they didn't care and they weren't worth his tears. He dearly hoped he wouldn't have to feel this feeling again, at least not in this intensity. Thomas could handle the detached sadness, with almost a selfish layer to it, causing one to worry about their own welfare, like the men who had died in war, or even William's death, but he absolutely could not handle this again.

"So did you. We were the two who really knew her." He took pride in being able to say he knew someone-properly knew someone-in many ways he couldn't even say that for O'Brien. In actual fact he didn't know much about her. She never spoke of herself. He supposed the same could be said for Sybil, he didn't know list upon list of intimate facts, but somehow, through just those couple of years spent together in the war he felt he got a great sense of who she was. Poor Anna must have been devastated as well, what with working so closely with her for years.

"I say your grief speaks well for her" Jimmy added from beside him, turning his head to look at him with an understanding expression which made him feel warm and good inside. Perhaps there was one good soul left after all; he had Jimmy, even if he wasn't his man yet, but his every word gave him hope and made him dream of a brighter tomorrow, which, right now, he dearly needed.

"Thank you for that. Thank you for saying that" he said with a firm grab of the footman's upper thigh. He could feel the warmth of Jimmy's skin underneath the fabric and it made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

* * *

He felt like shit-no, even _more_ shit than usual-and was thankful for the quiet in the middle of his day which gave him the opportunity to wander off to the village. It was his favourite thing about being a valet, next to the privilege of being called 'Mr Barrow' and getting to actually use his skills which otherwise went to waste in his footman days, it was good to have time when he could safely get away without being called for. With a letter collected from the post office in hand, and a new packet of cigarettes sitting in his pocket, he strolled back to the Abbey, sliding to envelopes into his inner jacket to read later, and popping a fag in his mouth to smoke on the way there.

What with the cascade of thoughts about Jimmy, and then the ordeal of losing Lady Sybil, Thomas hadn't allowed much else to wander through his mind, and guiltily, he had to admit he had been neglecting personal tasks and communication with the world outside of Downton, in favour of thinking about the former.

He supposed meeting Jimmy made him realise how much he wanted a friend, one who existed beyond pen and paper. But then again, he reminded himself, he was lucky to have anyone to talk to, even if it was only through letters, seeing as manners were never his strong suit, he should treasure what he already has and look after it, and if he finds a friend, or even a lover in Jimmy, well, that's even better. With a deceived nod of his head, Thomas vowed to read the letter later, or at least in the next few days.

_Who knows, might even cheer me up?_

* * *

_This is the day Thomas has been waiting for, the day he finally gets to leave this god forsaken country, (of course France is probably lovely when it isn't being shot to pieces, but this being his first experience on French land, he's sure no one would be offended if he said he never wanted to go back. War or no war)._

_Hours are spent travelling away from the trenches towards Paris, where another motor will come to pick them up. He doesn't know why they can't just use the same car; but maybe it's easier this way._

_However, it certainly doesn't seem easier as they are dropped off to find that there isn't anything waiting for them at the other end. After about ten minutes of confused standing around, an officer comes up to them and says there's been some confusion with the transport, and they probably won't be getting their ride for at least another 5 hours. Thomas watches as the man winces at the sound of annoyed moans from the wounded bunch, backing away slightly in caution (although there really isn't any point. What exactly are a group of injured men, some without arms or legs, almost all of them in immense pain, going to do to him? Frown at him until he dies? Groan in anger until he goes deaf?)._

_As the group hobble back to the truck to sit and wait, Thomas figures that he might as well try and get away. _**_No use wasting time with this sorry bunch, if I can waste it somewhere more comfortable, _**_Thomas thinks with a decisive nod, subtly wandering away from the motor and down the street, only briefly turning back to see if anyone's watching, and smirking at the sight of the officer with his head buried in his hands. _**_Wonderful._**

* * *

Some days later-after the initial shock of death had passed slightly, or at least subsided enough for him to be able to pull a neutral expression-the subject of religion had come up amongst the members of the servant's hall table, caused by the arrival of Mr Travis, the vicar. Apparently, Branson's announcement of Sybil being christened Catholic had caused quite a stir, and everyone seemed eager to debate.

"I don't believe in orthodoxy." Jimmy said at one point, after Carson had made his disapproval for Catholics known. Jimmy's voice alone was enough to make him pay particular attention to the conversation, but the words he found within were enough to have him hanging off his every word. He was certain that there was more to that comment than met the eye, it was quite a bold statement, especially in the presence of Carson; but an outrageous one if Jimmy was trying to hint to him how he felt and what he believed. It certainly sounded promising.

"That's a long word" O'Brien chimed in mockingly.

"A man can choose to be different without that making him a traitor." Now that had definitely gotten him hooked; Thomas couldn't see any way how that could _not _be suggesting what he thought it was. There was just no way. Hearing Jimmy say that being different didn't make you wrong made his heart race in his chest. He looked up eagerly, and looking Jimmy straight in the eyes said "I agree" like it was him replying to the footman's undercover message.

* * *

As Thomas sauntered through the corridor, he heard the echo of Ivy and Jimmy's voices in the kitchen ahead.

"What are you doing…" he heard her say, giving a pause like she had thought better of it, then continuing regardless, "with yer day off?"

"What I usually do. Go somewhere on me own." came Jimmy's reply and Thomas' heart skipped a beat. He certainly knew what he sometimes did when_he went somewhere on his own_, and hoped they were both referring to the same thing.

As Thomas got to the doorway, Jimmy was just walking out, and for a few seconds Jimmy held his eye contact, which Thomas was certain he couldn't have done by accident, what with the height difference, and once again Thomas felt his pulse rise. The footman was so close to his that their arms were nearly brushing as he looked down and continued to move.

_Oh God, this is certainly not just lust._

Thomas walked into the room stopping by the wall to look up and watch the exchange of words between Mrs Patmore and Ivy. "You never give up do you? He's not interested!" The words made him feel strangely smug, even though he knew she was of course not saying it because she believed Jimmy wasn't interested because he liked him, but still, he felt the satisfaction he got when he thought he knew something on one else did.

"Well, he's got to be interested in someone, he's young isn't he?" Ivy argued, and he couldn't help but smile and add, punctuating each word, self-satisfaction filling his voice, "Well, that someone is not _you_" before stalking out, a smile spread across his face. _That someone is me._

* * *

Downstairs, the fresh pain of death had mellowed into a gentle throb and life was beginning to continue on as normal.

"It's nice to know we have another piano player in the house. Unless you think it's too soon?" Said Anna, glancing up and Mrs Hughes seated opposite her, both listening to Jimmy as he played a merry tune on the piano; it ought to feel inappropriate so close to the loss of a loved one, but somehow it felt perfectly suitable.

"Oh no, Lady Sybil was a bright young thing. She'd be glad of some music…" she responded calmly, before looking up and calling to Jimmy's back "You play well James."

It was strange how he already felt some kind of connection to the other man, could already see the good and the bad inside him and loved every bit of it like he was his own; and he was proud when someone else could see the wonderful qualities he held, other than looks, which mostly went unnoticed. He felt his heart swell with pride at Mrs Hughes compliment, even though really it wasn't his place to feel pride on another's behalf; and every now and then he felt he needed to jog his memory just so that he was yet again aware that Jimmy wasn't his-yet-so it really wasn't his place to feel anything on the young footman's behalf. And yet still he did.

He smiled at he lent up against the side of the piano, watching the younger man's hands glide gracefully over the keys, before moving to stand at Jimmy's back, and replying for him, suddenly having the urge to vocalise the fact that he did care and was aware of him, not that there was any way he couldn't already know.

"There's no end to Jimmy's talents-" Thomas said, bringing a hand to rest on the younger man's shoulder, before lowering his voice to a tone which he hoped conveyed every meaning and every word he wanted to say, but didn't feel quite ready to; _"–is there?"_

He was quite sure of Jimmy's sexual inclination, but still a part of him just wanted to hang back a little longer, half his mind just wanting to make sure, the other half fuelled by the vanity and the romanticism of wanting Jimmy to come to him and ask for his love, body, and mind. Despite his body having aged somewhat from its former glory, he was still very much a young man at heart who wanted to be wooed and sought out.

Just in time to break the magical moment, O'Brien came up relaying the information that "His lordship wants you." Thomas glared up at her-his heart coiling back up from its state of openness, and his walls being rebuilt to protect him. As he made to take his leave, he let his hand linger on Jimmy's neck, the contact making his skin tingle, as it brushed from the back of his neck, towards the front, so close his fingers slide along his shirt collar. And then, just like that, his hand was gone from the younger man's skin, and he was wearing his best sneer for O'Brien, certain that she was enjoying pulling him away from the footman.

* * *

_After a few hazy glances around, Thomas decides to just talk to the bloke next to him to see if he can perhaps get it for free on a mutual understanding; he doesn't partially want to pay, somehow it takes some of the excitement of both parties wanting the same thing, and the way he sees it, he's young, handsome, and clean enough to have any man in here he wants for free._

_Reaching out his hand, he gives the man beside him a poke with his finger, his vision going momentarily fuzzy and out of focus as the others head lifts up wearily and lulls in his direction tiredly. Through the smokiness of the room, and his inebriated state, he can barely even make the other man out; he's so blurry. He thinks perhaps he's blond, but he can't really be sure, the heads behind and all the colours of the room seem to be swirling together. He squints his eyes to try and get a clearer look, taking another large swig of gin. _**_Yes, definitely blond…I think?_**

_He hopes that he would find the other man attractive sober as he pokes another finger to his general chest area, whilst slurring "Heelllooo haanndsoome!"_

_With another few squints, his eyes adjust a little to the dark room and his drunken condition, the quality of his sight waving from awful to somewhat acceptable, just enough for Thomas comes to the decision that the guy is rather nice looking-albeit a bit ruffled, his hair looking a little messed up, and his suit appearing to be creased, _**_unless that's a pattern? _**_Although somehow, Thomas can always spot who would be a handsome sort under normal conditions; tidy, vain, people always look a certain way when they're far from best, looking elegantly askew, rather than like the rest of society which just looks haggard and disgusting. Thomas likes to think of himself as being in the former category instead of the latter, and hopes this is true. _**_How can it not be true? This much beauty doesn't go away after a few drinks or sleepless nights._**

_He thinks that the man pulls a face and him and looks down at his hand, but what the expression was, Thomas really has no idea._

_After a beat, and the realisation dawning on him that a prostitute would be sitting at the bar on their own, looking for customers, Thomas decides that he might as well pay for this guys services, seeing as it is his last day in Paris and he doesn't have much time to waste._

_Through drunken logic, Thomas asks "Are you a prostitute?" flashing the other man a bright grin, his insides already bubbling with excitement of the soon to be encounter._

_"Bitch, do I look like a prostitute?" he asks indignantly with a slightly unstable voice, staring at him properly for the first time since he'd sat down. _**_God, lazy sod, you'd think he'd be a bit more actively looking for men, instead of drinking his money. If anything I'm doing him a favour by asking!_**

_Thomas pauses and drunkenly looks him up and down lasciviously._

_"Yes…" He pauses again. "How much for an hour?" he asks earnestly, nearly falling off his seat as he leers forward with a smirk, having to grasp his hands onto the others shoulders, for the first time taking in the military uniform, storing the information away for later in case the man wants to do some small talk before they have sex._

_The other lifts his hand heavily as if to hit him, but drops it back down to the table as if the act of hurting him is too much effort. "Well, I'm not." He says plainly, with a sniff, his tone still holding that strange waver to it._

_"Oh." Says Thomas. _**_Maybe if I move on and talk about something else, he'll forget I asked and then I can ask again as a non-customer?_**_ "Yes, that's a great idea."_

_"You what?"_

_**Ah, I said the last bit out loud…**__ "Bugger" Thomas swear, rummaging his mind for a suitable lie to tell. "I said, 'yes…but becoming one…would be…a great…idea?"_

_"I would say that such an action would bring shame upon my family" the soldier pauses and looks into his drink, muttering, more to himself than Thomas, "But I s'ppose I no longer have any family to dishonour." His voice brakes on the last few words and he sniffs again._

_"Isn't that a plus?" The other looks sharply at him, but he continues unfazed, "having no family means that you can do what you want…" the memory of his own long since abandoned family sneaks into his mind, "and that there's no one significant left to judge you, sure other people will, but they don't matter, there's no one left but yourself to do the judging on yer character apart from you" he gives his chest another poke to empathise his point, nodding to himself at his wonderful argument._

_Apparently though, it's not as comforting a concept as Thomas thought, giving a wince as the other bursts into tears._

_"But what if I wanted me dad to judge me, to tell me what was wrong?" he gives another wail, "he always knows-knew-what was wrong. If it weren't for him, I'd think loads of things were okay, like say-" the blond stops and his gaze focuses on something behind Thomas' head, his eyes widening._

_Thomas twists in his chair to look behind him and sees the two men from earlier getting along well, _**_very well…lucky buggers, _**_he thinks looking at the two men now naked._

_"Like homosexuality" the soldier murmurs, mouth gape, as he stares at the sight._

_With a nudge of his hand to the others jaw, Thomas draws his head to return to him and not the men. "Cheeky. Didn't yer dad ever tell ya it was rude ta stare?"_

_"Why are they…isn't anyone gonna stop them…it isn't right!" the blond protests, strangely ignorant of his location._

_"Yer in a homosexual bar love." Thomas replies with a smile and a pat to his head. _

_"Ooh God!" reaching for his drink, he takes a long sip, "Well, then I definitely don't want to remember any of this then-not that I wanted to remember this day anyway-Christ, I can't believe I just walked into a place like this!"_

_**So…no sex for Thomas then?**_

_"Aye, it happens to the best of us…actually no it doesn't. Not many can say they accidently came here…well," Thomas says with another gulp of gin, "does mister mourning, embarrassed solider have a name?"_

_"I ain't telling you. I don't want anyone to know I've been here!"_

_With a melodramatic sigh, Thomas decides, "Fine, I'll call you errh-" Thomas' brain is blank, before he's struck with inspiration, "Queen Whore Face!" he announces, laughing, and smacking the table, making his now empty glass topple over._

_"No!"_

_"Well, what do you suggest then?"_

_His drinking buddy pauses in thought, "What about, 'Golden Boy'. Me mam used to call me that" he says with a cheerful beam._

_"My mum used to call me 'Lazy Bastard'" Thomas murmurs, mind drifting in and out of memories._

_"Pleased to meet you Lazy Bastard, I'm Golden Boy" Golden Boy replies, thrusting his hand forward for Thomas to shake._

_They speak for a good few hours, making jokes and laughing, until it's time for Thomas to walk-stumble-back to the motor._

_"Can I have your address?" Golden Boy asks with a smile, looking far happier than when Thomas came in._

_He nods his head in agreement, his hair falling out of place and over his eyes, as he picks up a coaster and pulls out a pen to write. He was about to write his Downton address, but then thought better of it, thinking Carson wouldn't much like to get mail addressed to a 'Lazy Bastard'. After some quick thinking he writes the post office address. "What 'bout yours?"_

_"I don't think a letter addressed to 'Golden Boy' would get to me in the trenches," Golden Boy says with a grin. "But I'll write to you, and when this is over I'll give you the address of wherever I'm living, 'kay?"_

To Thomas' surprise, Golden Boy wrote frequently, normally venting about things which had annoyed him, or told him amusing anecdotes in the trenches. What's more, he even gave him his new address of the house he worked in when he came back home, and as soon as the war ended they kept up correspondence, exchanging letters every couple of weeks. Some weeks ago he had received a letter saying that Golden Boy was moving and getting a new job, but that he would be sure to get round to sending the new address as soon as he got there, and he supposed the letter he now held in his hand was the letter in speaking.

He tore open it eagerly, feeling guilty for not having done it sooner, pulling out the paper and only glancing at it for a few seconds before dropping it to the floor.

_'My new residence is Downton Abbey, Downton, Yorkshire'_


End file.
